


Supposed to Be

by BuckytheDucky



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Avengers Team as a Family, Blow Jobs, Bottom Steve Rogers, Canon Divergence, Consensual Sex, Eventual Smut, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, Jarvis lives, M/M, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Steve Rogers-centric, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Top Tony Stark, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 08:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21134039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuckytheDucky/pseuds/BuckytheDucky
Summary: It’s not supposed to be like thishas been Steve’s mantra for most of his life. Nothing is how it’s supposed to be ー Bucky isn’t his soulmate, Peggy isn’t his soulmate, and now he’s seventy years in the future without either of them. He’s lost, he’s confused, and more importantly, he’s missing an integral part of himself. The bonus to all of this is that he finally meets his soulmate. The downside? His soulmate isn’t exactly pleased with their destined connection. In fact, Tony seems to be perfectly happy pretending it didn’t exist at all, especially after their first meeting and the subsequent truths that come to light.Thankfully, Steve is far more stubborn than any one person should be, and he will do anything he can to make himself fit into this century ー and in Tony’s heart.





	Supposed to Be

**Author's Note:**

> an enormous thank you to hamsa and kait for their absolutely stunning, wonderful beta work and endless patience with my love of run-on, confusing sentences. because i'm the worst. and i am so grateful for kait's undeniable assistance with how the heckity heck i should even tag this because tags are hard.
> 
> and holy crap look at that beautiful banner that the lovely neutralchaos made! **i cannot contain how absolutely awed I am by it.**

_It’s not supposed to be like this_, Steve thinks at the sight of an arrow on Bucky’s left wrist. He forces a smile and goes to bed alone while his best friend prepares for an evening at the dance halls.

_It’s not supposed to be like this_, Steve thinks at the sight of the masks of Thalia and Melpomene on Peggy’s exposed shoulder. He swallows the hurt and disappointment and lets her guide him to the bed.

_It’s not supposed to be like this_, Steve thinks as he presses his fingers to the small blue-white circle over his heart, the enormous expanse of golden-pink sky nearly blinding him. The ocean is dark, threatening to devour him whole, beneath him. Peggy’s words are wobbling and full of static over the radio and barely heard over the roar of the jet engines, but all Steve can think about is the fact that he will never know to whom the symbol on his chest belongs, he will never know what his own symbol is… He will never know what that connection and unyielding love feel like. As the nose of the jet angles toward the water, he promises Peggy that he will be at the Stork Club next week and promises his soulmate he will be back for them, knowing that these are promises he will never be able to keep.

The room is wrong. The nurse’s hair is wrong, and while Steve may not have had a whole lotta luck with the dames, he has no doubt that her brassiere is wrong, as well. His shock at being alive blinks out of existence at the swell of anger that someone is trying to placate him by _lying_. The adrenaline coursing through his veins means he doesn’t feel a thing as he barrels through the wall, off-white plaster giving way to expose smooth dark corridors. He finally stumbles to a stop in the middle of a cordoned-off street, the sheer volume of people talking and the colours all around overwhelming him. His head aches at the cacophony of noise, and his heart aches at the proof of time gone by, of all that he’s lost.

It’s not supposed to be like this, Steve thinks desperately as the man in the black trenchcoat tells him it’s been seventy years.

Steve spends most of his time during the next two weeks in the near-abandoned gym in SHIELD’s lower levels. He’s well aware that he is constantly being watched, no matter what he does. His skin prickles under the scrutiny of the agents monitoring the video feeds as he makes his way through the gigantic building ー from room to gym to canteen to Records and back again. He’s left mostly alone; the only conversations he gets are from the staff who give him his meals and the agents who give him files and books on the seven decades he’s missed out on, and he doesn’t really consider “Burger, please and thank you” to be stimulating conversation.

Director Fury comes to him one night, and Steve walks away from the encounter far angrier than he has been in a long time. When will people ever learn to leave well enough alone and not fiddle with things they know nothing about, items that will bring about the end of civilisation? But he’s a soldier, he has a duty to his country ー his planet ー to keep it safe from harm, so he gears up like he’s told to and does what needs to be done.

When he’d first heard that Howard had a kid, Steve had been so consumed by irrational jealousy that he’d thrown the file across the room and paced, fuming and glaring at the sheets of paper strewn about. It wasn’t fair, he’d thought, to have laid down his life for God and country, to have lost out on a future and Peggy and kids, only to come back and find out that life had just moved on without him. Even _Howard_ had settled down eventually; the man had had it all, by the looks of things: a thriving business after the war, a secret agency that he built from the ground up that had international connections and the power to rid the world of threats unfathomable to the rest of humanity, a wife, a kid. And here is Steve, trying desperately to push through the heartbreak, pain, loneliness, and the immense, unshakeable feeling that he doesn’t belong here ー of being out of place, out of _time_, and unable to properly mourn all that he gave up.

Meeting Howard’s kid, now a grown man, was something Steve had both looked forward to and dreaded. Would Anthony be anything like his father? Steve wasn’t sure what would be worse ー if the son was everything like the man or nothing. Looking back now, Steve can see that he was foolish to ever hope that having Howard as a point of commonality would be enough to forge a connection with Anthony… _Tony_. If anything, it was probably the biggest cause of their immediate rift. Steve doesn’t find out until much later what kind of father Howard turned out to be, but it doesn’t matter. The damage is done. Tony hates him, and Steve… Steve accepts it. After all, he’s lost a helluva lot more than one man’s approval.

The unfurnished apartment in Brooklyn that Steve moves into after the Battle of New York, as everyone is calling it, has clearly seen better days; the paint on the walls is chipped and peeling, and the exposed bricks have nicks, even missing tiny chunks around the edges. It’s nothing like what modern society would lead him to believe is desired, and it’s nothing like what he and Bucky used to share. But it’ll have to do as home, he supposes. He adds Agent Phillip J Coulson’s name to his mental list of losses, wonders how many more times he’s going to have to say goodbye, then steels himself and pushes on. There’s not much to fill his days; he tries to wander around the city, but all the changes only serve to remind him of the ghosts that haunt him.

His attempts at art, something he used to find comfort in, find him putting faces to the aching bone-deep loneliness that resides under his skin. He starts carrying cash, handing it out to every homeless person he sees on the streets, his heart breaking when a lot of them turn out to be veterans who the government has let down. Every week, he makes his way to the Smithsonian and stares up at the faces on display: Peggy, Bucky, the Howling Commandos. He stares until his eyes burn, his vision blurs with unshed tears, and he heads toward the exit, dabbing at his nose with a handkerchief he purchased from a thrift shop. Natasha had teased him for his dislike of Kleenex tissue, but the jovial, playful familiarity was too much for Steve to handle; he’d stormed away, and she didn’t try to further their friendship again, just kept to a cool and professional sort of detachment in any subsequent conversation. He still can’t find the words to explain, so he hasn’t tried to apologise.

He tries to write letters to Tony ー either to say he regrets how their first interactions went or to tell the man how utterly lost he is now, seventy years out of his time, Steve isn’t really sure, but each word ends up drenched in pain and heartbreak, and his wastebasket is overflowing with crumpled balls of paper before he gives up. _It’s not supposed to be like this_, Steve thinks night after night as he collapses into bed following a day of doing nothing.

He rarely sleeps. His nights are constantly interrupted by haunting memories and phantasms of his past. Too many times, Steve startles out of nightmares of being back in the ice, but this time, he is able to watch from afar as life passes him by once more, the faces of those he’s let down digging their fingers into his skin and blaming him for their deaths, of witnessing Red Skull tearing his flesh from his own face and revealing bone the colour of blood and rage and fire. He wakes each time shivering, curled into a tight ball, as his heart races in his chest; the blankets he covers up with do little in the way of making him actually _feel_ warm.

Things have gotten slightly easier when Clint shows up at his door one rainy morning. Steve isn’t really in the mood for company, but he’s been alone for so long, he can’t take the constant silence any more. So he steps aside and lets Clint in. Clint stays by the door until Steve comes back from the bathroom with a towel. He busies himself with grabbing two glasses from the cupboard and filling them with water while his visitor dries off. If Clint has a negative opinion of the sparse decoration, lack of television, or limited amount of secondhand furniture, he doesn’t voice it, just perches carefully on the couch in what appears to be an attempt to lessen any water damage to the fabric. Steve listens without speaking as Clint tells him about the missions he’s been on for SHIELD, making sure to keep things vague so as not to violate the confidentiality clause in his contract.

Steve is certain he knows where this conversation is heading, just as he’s sure he’ll accept the offer as soon as Clint mentions the position SHIELD is desperate for Steve to fill. He knows he will be little good as a spy, but he’s been yearning for something to occupy his time instead of staring blankly at the walls. Besides, brute force is something he excels at, along with strategising, so as long as he doesn’t need to be someone he’s not, he can do the job. Clint barely gets the words “lead a STRIKE unit” out before Steve is telling the man he’ll do it. Clint stops talking immediately, his expression full of surprise, but he eventually smiles, claps a hand to Steve’s shoulder, and says he’ll see Cap bright and early Monday morning at SHIELD headquarters in DC. Before he walks out the door, he stops and turns to face Steve.

“Oh, by the way. Stark is opening up some floors in the tower if we wanna stay there whenever we’re in New York. Which might be more now that SHIELD is recruiting again.”

Steve doesn’t respond beyond a jerky nod, his thoughts having gone haywire. Why would Tony offer up a living space for them ー for _him_ ー when it’s obvious that he wants little to nothing to do with any of them? He couldn’t get away fast enough after the trip through the wormhole, so it makes no sense that he would welcome them with open arms. The only conclusion that Steve can reach as he’s showering that night is that Director Fury demanded it, bribed Tony with _some_thing in order to get what he wants.

The apartment in DC is much nicer than the one Steve just left. He donated his furniture to the local chapter of Habitat for Humanity and spent less than an hour packing up what little remains in his life. He left like a ghost, stepping over the threshold and closing the door behind him. No one will know that Captain America lived in this apartment for six months. There are no traces of his existence left behind except for a little more dust than when he moved in.

The first night in the new flat is sleepless; it’s too quiet without squeaky pipes, neighbours blaring music at all hours of the night, or cops speeding by on the street. Steve lies in bed with his hands tucked under his head and stares at the ceiling. His mind travels idly, thoughts switching from topic to topic. By the time the clock reads just after four in the morning, he’s long given up on attempting to sleep.

He sits on the couch in the living room, pencil in hand as his sketchbook rests on his knee. He scratches idly at his chin and stares down at the lines that cover the page. His brain fills in the colouring automatically ー the piercing grey-blue of Bucky’s eyes; the purple of the arrow on his left wrist; the vivid sharp red of Peggy’s lips twisted into a knowing smirk as she gazes up at him over her shoulder where the pale yellow and deep green of the masks peek out from the hem of her blouse, pulled down to expose her soulmark; the electric white-blue of the circle that rests above his heart almost dead-centre of his thin chest.

His breath catches in his lungs as he focuses on the circle on the page. He’s seen that exact shade before. Without thinking, he shoves the sketchbook away, ignores the pitiful rustle and _thump_ when it hits the edge of the coffee-table then the dark wooden floor. The tightness in his chest makes it hard to breathe; he struggles to draw in enough oxygen. His brain feels fuzzy as if his thoughts are refusing to be contained and examined, and his pulse pounds in his ears. The only thing that’s clear is the mental image of the arc reactor that powers the Iron Man suit, the one that keeps Tony alive.

_It’s not supposed to be like this_, Steve thinks helplessly as he wonders exactly what he did in a past life to deserve a soulmate who hates him so much.

Working with the STRIKE team is nothing like working with the Commandos ー or the Avengers. With the Commandos, it was all about survival, relying on the kind of friendship and trust that only a warzone can create to carry them through and keep each other alive. The fact that they were all just a bunch of scared men playing a deadly game that they wouldn’t ー couldn’t bear to ー lose gave them the tools needed to forge connections with each other that made them into a seamless machine, well-oiled by camaraderie and jokes because if they didn’t laugh, they’d cry. With the Avengers, it had taken the loss of Agent Coulson to force them to direct their anger and fight at the Chitauri instead of their teammates. They made it through with the same sort of quips and teamwork Steve hadn’t seen since the 40s. It was enough for a moment, but then everyone went their separate ways. Rumlow tries to be friendly with Steve, and Steve is courteous in return, but he isn’t sure he can handle another friendship that fails. Natasha is the only one that he lets relatively close, if only to take a small amount of comfort in the way her eyes light up just a little at his attempts. They both ignore the way the others mutter amongst themselves, and they do their jobs.

Tony isn’t in the tower when Steve arrives fresh from the hospital with only the change of clothes Sam brought him upon his discharge. Miss Potts is, though, and she greets him warmly in the atrium after a few minutes of Steve trying to make himself smaller in an attempt to avoid the inquisitive glances of everyone milling about. Thankfully, she doesn’t require an explanation, merely guides Steve toward an elevator that appears in the wall panelling as if by magic. She introduces him to JARVIS and, though he’s heard about the AI from Natasha and Clint, nothing could have prepared him for the melodic voice that seems to come from the walls themselves or how the program knows so much about him.

There’s no indication that the lift has stopped except for the doors sliding open smoothly. Steve follows Miss Potts out of the elevator and down a short hallway, her heels clicking with a measured rhythm on the dark marble. The living room she leads him into is empty and quiet, almost eerily so, but Steve pays attention as she gives him a tour of the communal areas. His head is spinning; he’s been here once before, when they apprehended Loki, but that was up in the penthouse which certainly hadn’t come across as this homey. He realises belatedly that Miss Potts has continued on and hurries to catch up with her on the staircase.

They come to a stop outside of a door that has a miniature version of his shield inlaid in the deep mahogany wood. His fingers itch to run over the gleaming design. Instead, he puts his thumb on the scanner by the doorknob when Miss Potts directs him to. A blue light illuminates under his finger before flashing green, and the lock clicks as it disengages.

“No one else can get in without your permission,” she assures him as they cross the threshold, “not even Tony. Unless it’s an emergency, such as you slipping in the shower and knocking yourself unconscious or if you’re being attacked.”

“Are those things being anticipated, then? Because I’d like to think I’ll be okay.”

Her answering smile is one part knowing, one part tinged with sadness. “Tony anticipates everything, especially worst-case scenarios.”

She leaves him to get settled in, the door closing with a _snick_ that sounds far too deafening for how quiet it is. Steve gazes around the apartment ー _his_ apartment ー that’s bigger than any other one he’s ever lived in before. It’s decorated nicely, he has to admit, in neutral, non-offending shades of eggshell whites, and earthy browns, and reds. Steve stands in the living room and turns around slowly to take it all in. He is still so confused by Tony’s generosity. Why would someone who detests him so much do something so nice, be so giving? Steve’s eye catches on the radio that sits in the corner, an old thing that was most likely bought from an estate sale and wouldn’t have looked out of place in a wealthy man’s parlour in the 1940s. He steps closer to admire it but hesitates when he sees a folded sheet of paper lying on top.

_Figured you’d like this. I had no use for it ー it was just collecting dust. Besides, Howard would have wanted you to have it. - TS_

Steve stumbles to the couch and collapses onto it. This was _Howard’s_? Why would Howard have wanted _him_ to have it instead of his own son? Maybe Tony’s lying, Steve’s brain whispers, though he doesn’t believe himself. He grabs onto that reasoning, however; he has too much on his mind as it is to chase the white rabbit down that particular hole. He has done well to avoid thinking about the Triskelion falling, HYDRA being in SHIELD all the way to the core, Fury’s “death”... Bucky being alive. But now that he’s finally alone, no one around except for an omnipresent AI system, it all comes rushing to the forefront of his mind. Anger and betrayal war deep inside of him with pain and grief and helplessness. He can’t believe that Bucky has been in HYDRA’s hands for seventy years, and no one knew. No one knew which means no one tried to save him.

_It’s not supposed to be like this_, Steve screams as he cradles his head in his hands and finally, _finally_, lets himself feel the overwhelming torrent of emotions that he’s kept locked up in the name of doing his duty.

The nightmares come back. Time seems to speed by during the day, and before Steve knows it, he’s readying himself for bed and praying desperately for an uninterrupted night of rest that he knows he won’t get. His faith in God, already tremulous at best, all but disappears the longer his pleas go unanswered. He spends a week locked up in his apartment, pacing and ripping pages from his sketchbook, hiding the faces of his ghosts in places that require effort to retrieve from, before he gives up.

Steve packs his duffel bag with a couple of changes of clothes brought from his flat in DC by Agent 13, gingerly places his shield in its case, and makes a quick meal out of the few perishables in the refrigerator. He eats slowly while sitting on the couch, staring around the living room. A heavy, sinking sensation in his gut nearly overwhelms him; it takes a moment to identify it: guilt. Tony went out of his way to give them all a place to stay, a place to call home no matter where they are in the world or what they’re doing, and Steve is planning to leave with no return date in mind. The sandwich turns to sawdust on his tongue. He forces himself to swallow the bite and reaches for his duffel bag. The sketchbook is lying right on top. He pulls it out, flips to a clean page, and grabs a pencil from the set.

_Tony,_  
_Thank you for all that you’ve done for the world. For us. For me. It’s obvious that you don’t care for me, but still, you gave me a home with no questions asked and no demands. You are a much better man than I gave you credit for being. I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you’ve done so much without expectation of payback. But I can’t stay._

_I've gotta find Bucky. He's my best friend, and I gotta save him. I hope you understand. And I most likely won't be coming back. I can't expect your generosity to continue, especially not now. I've been keeping this a secret for far too long, and I'm truly sorry for that. And for what I'm about to tell you. HYDRA killed your parents. I had my suspicions before the Triskelion fell, but once Natasha released the files from SHIELD, I knew for sure. And I'm certain you and JARVIS have gone over them ー probably repeatedly ー but there's something that wasn't in the files: the name of the weapon they used, the Winter Soldier. It was Bucky. I didn't know how to tell you or whether it would even matter. But I couldn't keep living here without finally being honest. For all the stories and songs that wax poetic about my bravery, I'm a damn coward. I can't even tell you this to your face._

_I'm so sorry, Tony. If you never forgive me, I understand. Thank you for everything, and I hope you have the life you deserve._

_Yours,_  
_Steve Rogers_

Steve tears the page carefully from the sketchbook and folds it up. He writes Tony's name on the outside, places it on the coffee table. Once he's done washing the few dishes he's used, Steve gathers up his bag and shield and steps out into the hallway. He stops long enough to run a fingertip reverently, regretfully, over the shield in the door then pushes on.

The cityscape gives way to long roads lined with trees and fields, and the air that comes in through the open window changes, becomes fresher. He pulls over to the side of the road and puts on his hazard lights, inhales deeply. His lower back aches from driving for so long, but the crispness underlying the heat in the air, promising an early start to autumn, helps take his mind off of it. He steps out of the vehicle and stretches out his bunched-up muscles as he wades through the kneehigh grass; it's only been a handful of hours since he left the tower, but he's certain no one is coming after him. He sighs and lets his fingers drag over the tips of the grass, listens to the birds singing and the buzzing drone of cicadas in their trees. He keeps walking, getting further from the truck. This feels...right. Unfamiliar, but right. It reminds him a lot of the trip he took after the encounter with the Chitauri, though then, he hadn't made unscheduled stops along the side of the road: he'd travelled for hours during the day, stopped only as night was falling, and rose early every morning to get on the road again before traffic picked up.

After almost half an hour, Steve turns back. He's almost surprised that all he sees is nature and the open blue sky; he expected someone to come find him and try to convince him to go home. Reluctantly, he accepts that he’s alone and slides back into the driver’s seat. He signals to merge onto the road, though there are no oncoming cars, and continues, letting the tires eat up the miles.

“You dick.”

Steve yelps and instinctively reaches for the shield that isn’t on his back. A lamp clicks on, and he blinks rapidly at the light that suddenly breaks up the darkness. The Iron Man suit gleams red in the illumination; Steve’s shoulders slump at the abrupt fade of his adrenalin rush. Tony glares at him from his position on the bed, leaning against the headboard with his arms folded close to his chest. He’s had the decency to take off his shoes before putting his feet on the mattress, at least. Steve heaves out a weighted sigh, puts his belongings on the floor at the foot of the bed, and toes off his boots, heading into the bathroom in socked feet. The overhead fan and rushing water from the tap are the only sounds for a long few minutes as Steve splashes cool water on his face. His skin is no longer clammy with sweat, but he still feels off-kilter. He halfheartedly hopes that Tony and the armour are only figments of his imagination, but they’re both there and very real when he makes his way into the main room, flipping the light switch to the bathroom as he goes.

“Why are you here?” he asks wearily, lowering himself into the armchair by the window; he winces at the scratchy fabric against his exposed arms.

“To tell you that you’re a dick.”

“Okay, you’ve done that. You gonna go now?”

“Absolutely not.” Tony’s angry expression doesn’t fade. His body remains taut with tension. “You’re a dick, and you’re goddamn right that you’re a coward. What self-respecting person would put that kind of information in a _letter_ and leave, expecting to be long gone before the recipient of said letter even got the chance to read it?”

“I had to go ー”

“Find Bucky, yeah, I got that. But what, you didn’t think I deserved to have you tell me to my face that your precious Bucky killed my parents?”

Steve scrubs a hand roughly over his face, already so tired of Tony’s impromptu visit. He sighs. “He was brainwashed.”

“Doesn’t mean he didn’t do it,” snaps Tony.

“Damn it, Tony, just…go.”

“No.”

“Please.”

Steve’s quiet plea does nothing to alleviate the situation. In fact, Tony seems to double-down on his stance of remaining on Steve’s bed and keeping him awake. Steve knows he could easily move the other man, but he’s exhausted and feels every bit as old as he truly is. He leans forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees, and stares at his clasped hands.

“I… You’re right. I should’ve told you to your face. I just, I guess I didn’t want to risk you getting into the suit and punching me.”

“I have half a mind to get in the suit and punch you anyway!” Tony shouts, his hands flying up into the air, before he visibly gets control of himself. “I want to punch you, with or without the damn suit, but Pep and Rhodey have assured me that that’s not how mature adults resolve conflict, though Rhodey did say he’d look the other way if I punched you _after_ we talked.” His eyes glaze over a bit, then after a moment, he shakes his head and rejoins the conversation, pinning Steve with a heavy, pointed look. His sigh causes his body to lose its tightness, and he lets his hands fall to his lap. “Look, I don’t know where you got the idea that I hate you ー”

“You couldn’t get away from us, _me_, fast enough after the Chitauri. That’s not even considering the way we were at each other’s throats before that.”

“Okay, well, the helicarrier was because of Loki’s sceptre, we _all_ agreed to that."

“And after?”

Tony sighs, stares down at his fingers as they twist over themselves. He shifts his weight awkwardly on the bed. “The wormhole… It messed me up, okay? I went up knowing it was a one-way ticket, even without you saying so. I knew I wouldn’t be back.”

“What’d you see?” Steve whispers when it becomes evident that Tony is lost in his thoughts, his memories. His heart is racing, but he doesn’t know if it’s nervousness of what he’s about to hear or fear for Tony’s well-being.

“I saw the universe,” Tony whispers just as softly. “I saw galaxies and nebulas and other worlds. I saw…_everything_. And I saw our destruction.”

“_What_?”

Steve listens in rapt silence as Tony speaks in a tight, hushed voice about the alien soldiers and warships on the other side. He tells Steve about what the witch made him see, his greatest fears brought to the forefront of his mind, and he talks of his plans for world safety. Steve isn’t quite sure how or when it happens, but he finds himself sitting on the edge of the bed, watching as Tony struggles to keep the emotion out of his voice. Eventually, the stream of words stops; Steve hesitates but ultimately reaches out to wrap a hand around Tony’s shoulder. A pleasant, heady warmth blooms in his chest at the contact and the way that Tony doesn’t shrug him off.

“I wish you’d told me this earlier. Any of us, actually.” Steve sighs, pulls his hand away. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You know me ー the futurist who tries too hard,” Tony bites out; the bitterness in his voice is sharp, venomous.

“I don’t think that. Not any more,” he amends at Tony’s derisive snort, lets out a sheepish chuckle. “I think you see problems before the rest of us and look for solutions where you can. I meant what I said in that letter, Tony. I didn’t give you enough credit. But…”

“But you still need to look for Barnes.”

“I do. Wouldn’t you do the same for Colonel Rhodes?”

Tony sighs and forces a smile as he clambers off the bed. “You, uh, you’re still welcome at the tower when you’re done. Both, both of you.”

Steve’s breath hitches, and he wonders as he stares up at Tony, at his dark eyes hiding so much, how he got such an amazing, giving soulmate. Tony nods succinctly, slips his feet into his shoes, and crosses the room to step inside the waiting Iron Man suit. Steve calls his name just as the armour gets to the door.

“You… you know we’re soulmates, right?”

He half expects the faceplate to pop open but isn’t surprised when it doesn’t. The brilliant blue-white of the eyes and arc reactor is achingly familiar. Steve’s fingers burn with the desire to draw them. He keeps himself from running his fingertips over the glossy paint of the suit, though it takes much more effort than he would have ever anticipated. Finally, Tony speaks, voice even and made mechanical by the suit.

“Yeah. I know.”

Steve gets to the door in time to see the streaks of blue-tinged white speeding away. He stares at the night sky long after Tony’s disappeared. His mind is a jumbled mess. He feels like most of the issues that they have with each other have yet to be resolved, that they’re going to loom ever more present when ー _if_ ー Steve goes back to the tower. But the guilt is no longer weighing him down. Tony knows, so it should be enough. Unfortunately, that guilt is replaced swiftly, mercilessly, by apprehension. Tony admitted that he’s aware of their star-destined connection, but what does it mean that he left so quickly after the confession? Is this his way of saying he doesn’t care and wants to ignore it? How long has he known and when, if ever, was he planning on acknowledging it? Steve knows he has very little room to question it ー he hadn’t ever considered broaching the topic with Tony, too terrified of the potential reaction and fallout to be comfortable with that thought, but it hurts to be on this end of the equation with no answers.

Steve stumbles toward the bed and sits down roughly. He has no idea what to do now. He knows finding Bucky is important, it’s why he left New York in the first place, but Tony is just as important, at least now that Steve knows that Tony knows. He’s torn on which path he should follow: Hunt for his best friend or go after his soulmate. Steve cradles his head in his hands, gripping his hair tightly in his fingers, then scratches at the back of his neck. Something on the nightstand catches his attention when he reaches over to shut off the lamp.

At first, he thinks it’s Tony’s phone, but he dismisses that as an option immediately as he remembers the man would never be without his phone, let alone leave it behind in a dingy motel somewhere outside of Roanoke. Steve pauses, stares at the innocuous device, then picks it up. He nearly drops it when the screen suddenly lights up and shifts, going from the lock screen to the home wallpaper within milliseconds. There are only four icons displayed: a phone, an envelope, a notepad, and a white A on a blue background. The notepad symbol wiggles, and he breathes in sharply through his nose even as he hesitatingly taps the icon with his index finger. Read this is the first and only item in the app; he presses it.

_This phone is connected to a sort of mini-JARVIS. Not as awesome as full-JARVIS but still great enough to do what you need. Anything you need, just tell him and he’ll get the info for you. All of our numbers are already saved, but if you want to delete one, go ahead. Phone, Messages, and Notes are all pretty self-explanatory, right? The Avengers symbol is only to be used if you require the full force of an ex-carnie, Russian spy, demigod, giant green rage monster, and the absolutely irreplaceable genius/billionaire/playboy/philanthropist/man in a tin can ー please don’t accidentally press it. Natasha will be pissed if she misses Desperate Housewives for a false alarm. Double-tap the screen anywhere except on the icons if you need JARVIS’s terminal ー it’s where you’ll type in your requests if speaking out loud isn’t an option. Hopefully, this helps you get back home safe. -TS_

“Uh, JARVIS?” Steve says slowly, his face flushing as he hopes desperately that this isn’t Tony’s sick way of pranking him in response to Steve leaving a letter behind instead of talking to him directly.

“Yes, Captain Rogers?”

Steve _does_ drop the phone this time as JARVIS’s voice, tinny and small, comes through the speakers. He curses, fumbles for the device. He’s inordinately glad that he’s alone right now.

“Oh, um, hi. Tony didn’t… Well, he didn’t tell me how to close out of the, uh, the programs on this phone?”

“Of course. All you need to do is swipe down from the top of the screen. The device will automatically kill the processes not in use to preserve battery life.”

“Oh! Thanks a lot, JARVIS.”

“It is my pleasure, Captain Rogers.”

Steve opens up the messaging application and sees that the inbox is already set up, full of threads with each of his teammates ー so obviously Tony’s doing. Steve ignores the warmth that flares up in his chest and opens up the thread with Tony, whose name is at the bottom of the list. He stares at the blinking cursor in the compose box. What should he say? _Thank you_ doesn’t seem to be enough, but anything else would be too much to discuss in text messages. In the end, he settles for something to the point.

_Tony, thank you for the phone. There really was no need, my other one was fine enough, but I appreciate it regardless. I think we should sit down and talk whenever I’m back in New York._

The screen remains unchanged for a long minute during which Steve’s heart begins to pound. He wonders if he should just have left it at a simple thanks ー or nothing at all ー but it’s too late now. _typing…_ appears at the bottom of the message box, disappearing and reappearing and disappearing again. Then, finally, Tony’s response comes through.

_No worries, Cap. You can still use your old one. If you don’t want state of the art (actually, better) encryption and unhackability, be my guest to turn off the one I gave you and return it if you come back._

Steve rolls his eyes and sets the phone on the nightstand. He noticed Tony didn’t mention them talking once Steve is done with his plans, but he understands why. He stretches himself out on the bed and rests his head on one arm. He isn’t sure how much sleep he’ll get tonight, but he has to at least try. A small part of him wishes he’d stayed at the tower ー there, he never had to worry about waking the neighbours if he woke up screaming for Bucky. He knows, though, that remaining in New York hasn’t been an option since the moment he found out his best friend is alive.

He jerks to consciousness at a deafening _bang_. His body is immobile, unmoving beyond minute trembles, and every breath burns in his lungs, tears at his throat. He gasps loudly as the last icy tendrils of his nightmare fade away; a woman’s voice calls through the cheap wood of the door.

“Sir? Are you okay?”

The floor lurches under his feet, and he makes his way to the door on unsteady legs. The motel manager stands on the other side, her expression torn between irritation and concern. She fakes a step back when the door catches on the end of the chain, and Steve peers through the crack.

“Sorry to wake you, sir, but there’s been a lot of noise complaints about your room. So, uh, could you please keep it down?”

“Okay.”

She hesitates then nods sharply and walks away. Crickets chirp in the long unkempt grass on the other side of the parking lot; stars glimmer in the dark sky above, barely visible beyond the enormous lamps dotting the property. Steve pushes the door closed and shivers. His skin ripples with goosebumps, the air of his room too cold and still. A gentle light brightens and dims from the nightstand; Steve trudges across the room and drops to sit on the bed. His body feels heavy, much more weighted down with loss than it has since he came out of the ice. Eventually, he reaches for the phone, and the golden glow along the edge of the frame stops flashing. The message is from Tony, a set of numbers Steve recognises as coordinates.

When Steve gets to the destination, all he finds are a burnt-out shell of a building, what appears to be a body crumpled in the doorway, and two guests. Smoke spirals into wisps over still-smouldering sections of the walls; Natasha stomps her foot down onto a patch of weak flames attempting to grow, then walks over to the truck. Sam is wearing his goggles, examining the ruins. Steve sighs, pushes open the door, and steps out onto the dry, cracked dirt.

“He’s been here.”

It isn’t a question, not really, but Natasha nods solemnly and averts her gaze back to the HYDRA base. They stand together, silently surveying the destruction that Bucky left behind. Steve has a suspicion that catching up to Bucky won’t be as difficult as he previously thought ー it’ll be much harder. After a couple more minutes, Redwing exits the building among another small cloud of smoke, and Sam joins them. There’s nothing else they can do.

Natasha drives them to the motel the pair are staying in. while she focuses on the road and Sam transfers Redwing’s files into a laptop, Steve brings up JARVIS’s terminal.

>>Known HYDRA bases.

>>There are approximately 39 known HYDRA bases within the continental US, an as-of-now unknown number in other countries.

>>Locations of US bases.

>>Certainly.

What follows is a long string of coordinates, and Steve skims over them, hoping to recognise any of the numbers. He knows that if they have this list, then Bucky does, too. It’s just a guessing game as to which he’ll hit next and hopefully getting there first.

Back at the motel, the trio goes over the data collected from the destroyed base. It appears to have been nothing more than a supply depot, a one-stop shop for information and weapons alike. The laptop cleans up the image of the corpse and spits back a short bio. No known name, just an alias used between HYDRA agents, which means they’re getting smarter in the modern age: Erase everything possible of a person’s public identity and leave only what they don’t mind being found. Sam sends the image in an email ー most probably to Tony ー while Steve retrieves the list of bases. Natasha leans over and unzips her bag, pulling something from its depths; the paper rustles as she unfolds a large map. Steve watches as she carefully tears it in half, folding up the portion that doesn’t include the United States. She then opens a pack of page markers, grabs a pen from the nightstand, and writes a few words in neat, tiny letters on a bright green Post-It tab before sticking it on the map over their current location.

Steve calls out one of the coordinates, and she places a marker on the corresponding spot on the map. It takes half an hour, but finally, each location is marked. None of the other tabs have anything written on them besides the first one. Steve looks closer to see “Sup Dep ー Des”. Sam pulls a sharpie from the pocket of his harness strap and passes it over to Steve, then they both look at him expectantly. He stares back, overwhelmed and confused. His thoughts had seemed so clear this morning when he was driving, but now that everything is laid out in front of him, that clarity is gone. He swallows thickly, looks down at the fluorescent tabs dotting the map.

“We… we should find out if any of these coordinates lead to anything more significant than a supply depot.” Steve clears his throat. “JARVIS?”

“One moment, please. Yes, it appears that seven of the coordinates have been marked in HYDRA files as bases of operations, twelve are currently unknown, and the remaining twenty are either supply depots or safehouses, including the one you visited today.”

Steve inhales deeply and holds it until he feels less shaky. He lets the breath out at a controlled pace, decides on a course of action. “Okay. Can you send me the list again but this time organised by category?”

“Of course. I have sent the data to your phone, along with Agent Romanov’s and Mister Wilson’s.”

Natasha holds up her phone and gives it a little shake to indicate she’s received the coordinates. Steve thanks JARVIS and sighs, gesturing toward the bathroom. Natasha waves a disinterested hand in his direction and Sam nods before leaning over the map. Steve doesn’t waste any more time; he scoops up his phone and pushes to his feet.

Once the door is closed and locked tightly behind him, he sits on the edge of the tub, scrubbing a hand over his face. Stubble prickles sharply against his palm, and he remembers idly that it’s been almost thirty hours since he last shaved. His head is starting to hurt with the lack of sleep and unending torrent of emotions. He opens his messaging app.

_Thank you. He’d already been there and left by the time I got there, though._

Tony’s response is swift, causing Steve’s phone to buzz in his hand not even a full minute later. _Yeah J told me. I’ll keep an eye out._

_You don’t have to. I know how you feel about him._

_Do you? Did he murder your parents too then?_  
_Forget it._  
_This is the least I can do._

Steve stares at the words on the screen. He’s terrified of saying the wrong thing and destroying this tentative...whatever they have. With a sigh, he sets the phone down next to him and covers his face. A negligible part of him wishes he’d never participated in Project Rebirth, that he’d stayed the same scrawny, sickly kid he used to be and died a forgettable death in Brooklyn. _At least then_, a traitorous voice in his brain whispers, _you wouldn’t have lived to see what Bucky’s become, you wouldn’t have lost everything, and your soulmate wouldn’t hate you._ He tries to argue that Tony doesn’t hate him, that he just needs some time to deal with everything he’s learned, but then Steve realises he’s arguing with himself and exhales sharply.

A soft knock sounds at the door, and Natasha’s voice comes through, gentle and non-confrontational like he is a wounded animal she doesn’t want to startle.

“Steve? You okay in there?”

“Yeah,” he says and clears his throat when the word comes out scratchy and congested. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll be right out.”

_I appreciate everything you’re doing_, he sends to Tony. _Thank you._

Steve pushes himself to his feet, catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror above the sink. The tightness around his eyes, the drawn heaviness that drags on his body, the loss and pain on his face… They all serve to remind him of all the ghosts and guilt he carries with him every day, exacerbated by the way his world has been turned upside down repeatedly since he came out of the ice. He swallows past the lump in his throat, straightening his shoulders, and watches how the Captain America mask slips into place and the hurt, the confusion, the Steve part of him disappears.

Natasha and Sam drift off to sleep late in the evening after hours of figuring out a plan and dinner picked up by Sam from the McDonald’s five minutes down the road. Steve can’t sleep, though; instead, he sits in the chair at the rickety table and stares at the map and all of its brightly-coloured tabs evidencing HYDRA’s unfortunate continued existence. He can’t think of anything except for how his life was never meant to turn out this way. He was supposed to lead the Commandos to a victory, go home after the war, and live a long full life with Peggy and Bucky. Instead, he laid down his life, and, by some miracle or a fluke in the serum’s chemistry, he survived seventy years and awoke to find a world that had forgotten all about Steve Rogers and memorialised Captain America.

His hand clenches into a tight fist on his knee, and his breathing grows harsh. The walls seem to be closing in on him; he squeezes his eyes shut tightly and focuses on controlling his breathing, but it doesn’t help, he can’t breathe. Gasping in shallow gulps of air, Steve stumbles for the door, hand fumbling on the knob until he finally, _finally_, manages to twist and pull at the right time. He winces when the screen door slams against its frame behind him but ignores the echoing bang as he lets his body collapse until he’s sitting on the edge of the sidewalk.

The nighttime air is warm, thick with humidity and the smell of dirt, grass, and oil. A light breeze blows by, bringing with it a touch of coolness. Steve gasps brokenly as he wraps his arms tightly around himself. Crickets chirp in the grass to his right; the noise is muffled by the heavy haze that blankets his mind. Something in him is clawing desperately to get out, to be seen and acknowledged, but he has no idea what it is. Bile creeps its way up his throat. He leans to the side and retches. His throat burns, his stomach heaves again, and he folds himself in half, choking on the air he can’t inhale properly. He manages to dig his phone from his pocket, and his fingers tremble as he turns it upright.

“JAR-JARVIS? Can...can you help? How do I, how do I stop?”

“If you’re talking about the panic attack that you are currently experiencing, then I suggest naming three things that you see. Captain?” JARVIS prompts when Steve hasn’t responded in a long moment.

Steve shudders violently, nodding though the AI can’t see him. “R-right. Three things I see. Uh, the asphalt of the parking lot, the stars, the grass.”

“Now list three sounds that you hear.”

“Crickets,” Steve mumbles before forcing himself to breathe again, speaking louder. “Crickets, the, um, cars on the highway… Buzzing from the lights.”

“Very good, Captain. Now if you will move three parts of your body around, slowly and methodically. It can be your arm, fingers, ankle, toes. And please remember to breathe.”

Steve dips his chin and stretches out a hand, watches as his fingers slowly stop shaking of their own accord and move with his permission. His chest feels slightly less tight with each movement, and he eventually gasps one last time, drags in a deep, unsteady breath. Only the chirping of insects breaks up the silence as Steve feels his heart rate slowing and his muscles loosening. He scrubs a hand over his eyes, brushing away the tears, and he lets out a heavy exhale, tremulous and harsh.

“Captain Rogers, as you are not in the tower, I am unable to get a reading of your vitals. Please confirm that you are no longer feeling symptoms of an ongoing anxiety episode.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m ー I’m fine now, thanks, JARVIS. You, uh, sound like you’ve done this before.” When JARVIS doesn’t respond, Steve realises that if the AI _has_ done this before, it is an intensely personal thing and his questions are unwelcome. He clears his throat awkwardly. “Sorry, JARVIS. I know it’s none of my business. Uh. Is… is Tony awake?”

“No. Sir has gone to bed per Ms Potts’s orders. Would you like me to wake him?”

“Nah, don’t bother him. Just, uh, just tell him I said thanks when he wakes up.”

“Of course. I shall pass the message on.”

Steve sits on the curb, gazes out at the night. Loneliness creeps slowly into his bones when no other voice is there to keep him company. After a long few minutes, he sighs, pushes himself unsteadily to his feet, and heads inside. Sam and Natasha are both asleep on one of the beds; Steve watches their chests rising and falling with their breathing. He then makes his way to the unoccupied bed. It’s nearing midnight, and it’s been so long since he’s had uninterrupted sleep. He stretches out on top of the blanket, resting his hands under the back of his head, and stares at the shadows on the ceiling under his eyes finally close.

Another month passes with the same routine: Wake up, eat breakfast, and drive to the next stop on the map. Steve doesn’t mention his panic attacks to the other two, and though he knows Natasha is aware of how on edge he really is, they don’t ask. Tony sends information ー sometimes to Natasha’s phone, other times to Steve ー as he gets it; unfortunately, it isn’t much to go on. By the time they get to the bases, the buildings and compounds are usually up in flames or in a mass of rubble. Steve finds his patience has worn thin to the point that he is constantly having to bite his tongue so that he doesn’t snap at his friends. His inbox is slowly filling up with text messages from Tony, random pointless messages that make little to no sense or inquiries about how Steve is doing; they’re all friendly enough, which causes Steve’s brain to stumble to a halt any time he reads them.

Eventually, it all comes to a head. Sam, Natasha, and Steve manage to get to the base right as the fire is making its way through the complex, and Steve shoves open his door at the sight of the solitary figure standing just outside the fence. His heart pounds in his throat as the weak sun glints off the metal of the person’s arm. Startlingly clear blue-grey eyes meet Steve’s within a second, and even from this distance, Steve can see the hatred and anger in Bucky’s eyes. Steve doesn’t even get to speak before Bucky is turning on his heel and sprinting toward the copse of trees along the outer barrier of the base, disappearing into the shadows. Steve stares after him, feels for all the world like he’s failed again.

Steve sits on the bed of yet another motel room, ignoring the television as it plays some sitcom from the 90s and the way Sam and Natasha are laughing and chatting easily amongst themselves. His fingers swipe idly across the screen of his phone. He isn’t sure when he decided to, but he focuses on the screen and realises he’s opened the message thread with Tony. The last message he sent was over an hour ago, responding to Tony’s question of how the day went. Somehow, Steve had managed to completely avoid the question and instead admitted that he’d had an anxiety episode the month before. He comes to terms with the fact that maybe Tony isn’t prepared to hear Steve talking about it ー hell, Steve isn’t even prepared to really talk about it ー so he sends another text.

_We keep getting there too late._

Tony’s answering text takes a few minutes to arrive; when it does, Steve rolls his eyes. _Maybe let him come to you, then._

_Easy for you to say, you hate the guy_, Steve types viciously before deleting the words and replacing them with _And if he never does?_

_This is a novel idea, I’m sure, but by chance, have you ever tried realizing you can’t control everything?_  
_People are going to do what they want and need to do_  
_Regardless of your personal opinions._  
_Let him make his own damn choices, Rogers._

Steve forces himself to take a steadying breath, closes out of the text thread, and puts his phone on the bed next to him. He tries to pay attention to the show as Kimmy gets insulted once more by Stephanie, but his mind keeps circling back to Tony’s words. He glances over at Natasha and smiles to himself when he sees how casually close she and Sam are sitting on their bed; he decides to spend the night thinking about what Tony said without bringing it up to the others until he’s made a decision.

The morning comes too slowly, time dragging on with the weight of a million worlds. Steve climbs out of bed first; the sun isn’t even up fully when he steps outside and locks the door behind him, heading to the worn-down gas station attached to the motel’s parking lot. He grabs a handful of frozen burritos from the freezer, heads to the front to pay, and glances up at the tiny TV behind the partition while the clerk counts out change.  
_Iron Man seen at children’s hospital_ scrolls across the bottom of the screen, and Steve’s lips twitch, his chest going warm at the words. He nods in thanks when the clerk passes over a few coins, gathers up the bag of burritos, and makes his way out the door.

“This isn’t working,” he announces after the trio has eaten and are preparing to head out. Natasha gives him a long, measuring look, and Sam glances at Steve, down at his bag, and back at Steve. Steve sighs. “We’re always ten steps behind, and you two don’t deserve to be dragged all over the continent like this.”

Natasha shrugs, shoves a knife into her boot. “Not like I can do much now that SHIELD is gone.”

“Told you, man, I got your back,” Sam says, but he does stop rolling up his shirt from the day before.

Steve sighs. “I appreciate it, I really do, but… let’s go home. We’re never going to catch him, not like this, and Sam, you’ve got a job to get back to.”

“If you’re sure, I guess.”

The drive back home is quiet, but comfortably so. Steve still has a tight ball of tension in his gut that tells him he’s making the wrong decision; he ignores it in favour of making Natasha and Sam’s lives easier. Sam gets out of the car in front of his house in DC and pokes his head in through the open passenger window, giving Steve a reassuring smile.

“Things’ll work out, Cap, they usually do.”

Steve forces a grin in response, nodding succinctly though he doesn’t believe Sam’s words; the other man catches Natasha’s eye, his gaze dropping quickly to her lips before darting back up, and he opens his mouth as if to say something. Natasha responds by pushing gently, playfully, on his forehead until he’s no longer leaning into the car. Her teeth are biting at her lower lip in an attempt to stop her smile, but Steve sees it anyway. Sam pats the car with a hand, steps back so Steve can pull away from the curb. Natasha doesn’t speak for the four and a half hours it takes to get to the Tower, just stares out the window as the vents blow out warm air. Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun, stray strands of vivid red dancing in the slight breeze, and Steve glances at her as she gathers up the bag of trash from the drive.

“Sam?”

“Focus on the road, old man.” She pauses. “Problem?”

“No, definitely not. He’s… he’s a great guy.”

She rolls her eyes and unbuckles her seatbelt; Steve shuts off the ignition, steps out of the car, and heads to the trunk to grab the duffel bags. Clint and Bruce are in the communal living room when Natasha and Steve step off the elevator. Thor sits at the table in the kitchen, reading a science journal with a strip of bacon held aloft in his fingers but long forgotten. Tony is - nowhere to be found. It isn’t surprising, though, at least not to Steve. He hadn’t expected Tony to roll out the red carpet and make a huge deal out of their arrival. He says hello and goodnight to the others, steers himself toward his quarters.

The door closes with a quiet click, and Steve thanks JARVIS when the lights come up to a moderate level. His body aches from the long drive, and he’s honestly physically exhausted. He drops his duffel bag to the floor, makes his way to the kitchen to get some food. The expiry dates on the food in the fridge are different, he notices and pulls out the carton of eggs. After eating in the echoing silence, he checks the time; it’s almost two in the morning, so Steve knows he should go to bed. But he can’t. He ends up sprawled across the sofa, watching some awful “reality” television shows, as the hours tick past.

Days pass, and Steve finds himself roaming the halls of the Tower. He doesn’t speak to anyone on the SI floors beyond a quick hello, but he doesn’t feel bad about that considering how obviously busy they all are. There’s really nothing for Steve to do beyond the occasional call for Avengers intervention, and even those are few and far between. It’s almost surprising how little the team is needed. He’s not complaining, not by a long shot, he can admit that it would be nice to have _something_ to do.

One particularly bad night prevents Steve from being able to stay peacefully in bed. He spends four hours tossing and turning before giving up with a frustrated sigh. He throws back his blankets, clambers out of bed, and pulls on a pair of sleep-pants. He walks slowly through the corridors of the residential floors, staring at each of the symbols on the doors ー a small black spider on a red circular background, a purple bow against black, a lightning bolt behind a realistic etching of Mjolnir… His lips twitch at the green squared fist, a beaker with three tiny circles on the knuckles, on Bruce’s door. Steve isn’t paying much attention to where his feet are taking him, so he stumbles to a stop, confused and surprised to see that he’s standing outside the dark glass walls of the workshop.

“Sir would like to know if you are planning on standing there all night, or if you would like to come in.”

Steve startles, bites down on a yelp, and drags in an unsteady breath. “Uh, I won’t be imposing on him?”

In response, the doors swish open, and the hallway brightens as light spills out of the workshop. Steve hesitates, then steps inside. Brilliant blue holoscreens float in the air, and DUM-E beeps as Steve nears. Tony doesn’t glance up from the schematics he’s manipulating around; he does wiggle his fingers in Steve’s direction, though, so Steve counts it as a win. He makes his way across the large space to the couch in the corner. A thick afghan is draped over the back, its mere presence signifying that someone sleeps down here multiple times. He settles into the cushions, sighs as quietly as he can. Tony still hasn’t looked away from his work, too immersed in lining up blueprints and enlarging what appears to be a new suit design. Steve watches the other man’s fingers moving across the screens as if it’s a well-known dance.

“Can’t sleep?”

Steve shakes his head, then answers aloud, “No, you?”

“Sleep is for the weak,” Tony says with a snort. “J, add about twenty percent ー no, God no, too much, uh, make it seventeen ー there we go. Yay, less chance of death.”

“What are you working on?”

“A new suit, mostly, but got a few other toys I wanna get into production.”

“Like what?”

Steve listens as Tony explains about the medical technology he’s trying to advance, tools that can be used for search-and-rescue missions, and various other devices to make life easier for so many people. Steve points to one of the screens.

“What’s that?”

“That, my dear Cap, is an unhackable, un-fuck-with-able voting poll so we don’t end up stuck with someone grossly unqualified and narcissistically malignant as President in the future.”

Steve nods slowly. The pair fall into silence again for a few minutes, and just when it becomes uncomfortably quiet, Tony waves a hand in the air. The loud chords of some rock song blare throughout the workshop; Steve winces at the sudden volume, resists the urge to cover his ears. Thankfully, his reaction doesn’t go unnoticed: JARVIS helpfully turns the music down to a volume that is much less vicious on Steve’s ears.

In the nights that follow, Steve winds up in the workshop when he can’t sleep. The time there goes about the same as that first night ー they chat idly as Tony works and Steve watches. It isn’t long before Steve sneaks a drawing pad and pencils into the workshop with him; Tony doesn’t seem to notice that Steve spends the time sketching instead of responding to Tony’s technobabble.

As these things usually do, the tentative and still somewhat awkward friendship they’ve struck up spills out of the workshop and into other communal floors. Tony will sit at the dining table and tap away at his tablet while Steve cooks, or Steve leans against the counter and talks about what he’s learned from reading engineering books as Tony makes coffee. The other members of the team had given them inquisitive looks, cracked jokes, in the beginning but eventually, those stopped and have been replaced with acceptance. Clint is the one who starts up team movie nights; he announced that Steve having never seen _Phantom of the Opera_ is an atrocity and demanded the team be in the theatre room at eight o’clock on the dot one night, and it’s become a ritual: Steve and Thor gather up snacks (“You have the biggest arms, you can carry more!” Clint said when he ordered them to the kitchen the first time), while the others prepared the seats with blankets and pillows. The movie-watching routine slowly migrates to the living room after a couple of weeks, and everyone seems much happier being able to sprawl out on the overstuffed couches. Even on nights when Tony has SI work or something he can’t get away from in the workshop, Steve will show up, stuff as many bags of pretzels and chips as he can in his arms, and find his way to a sofa, but it’s never the same without Tony mocking the films incessantly under his breath from where he sits on Steve’s left. Thankfully, those times aren’t as often as Steve would have anticipated; Tony seems to actively make an effort to be there.

A warmth blossoms in Steve’s chest now whenever he sees Tony, and it takes far longer than it should to recognise what it is. He’s disgusted with himself when he realises that somewhere in the last year, he’s fallen in love with the other man. It certainly isn’t the time, he knows it isn’t, and their past history ー from the first meeting on the Helicarrier to telling Tony that Bucky killed his parents ー means there is little to no chance that Tony would ever reciprocate those feelings. So Steve keeps it to himself; he pretends the feelings don’t exist and forces himself to focus on the friendship. If he falls asleep each night with his fingers pressing painfully into the soulmark on his chest, no one needs to know.

Tony is out of the tower for a business dinner when Steve experiences the worst nightmare he’s had in quite a while. He doesn’t even try to roll over and go back to sleep. He just shoves his blankets away and dresses quickly, rushing without running to exit his room and leave those ghosts behind. He comes back to himself when he realises he doesn’t have the code to get into the workshop; he’d meant to go to the gym, since he could spend hours beating the punching bags and walk away feeling exhausted in every way, but at some point, the workshop became the beacon of security, _comfort_, for him. Steve leans his forehead against the cool glass and closes his eyes.

“JARVIS?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Is Tony back yet?”

“No, he is not, but you are more than welcome to go into the workshop if you would like. I assure you that you are allowed in there and that everything confidential or proprietary is locked away and cannot be accessed by anyone other than Sir.”

“Are… are you sure?”

“Yes, Captain.”

The doors slide open quietly, and Steve steps into the dimly-lit workshop. DUM-E wheels out of his charging station with a chirping noise, but the other two only swivel their cameras in Steve’s direction, remaining in their stations like good little bots; he’s sure he isn’t imagining their curiosity, U’s camera tilting this way and that. He runs a finger over DUM-E’s strut, asks him why he isn’t staying in his ‘bed’ like his brothers. DUM-E only beeps wildly and shoves at Steve until the man is sitting on the couch. When the bot rolls away, Steve’s lips twitch, and he stares around the workshop. It’s not nearly as lively without Tony and all his screens. His vision is suddenly obscured by a large black camera, and Steve jerks backwards, grabbing the scrap of cloth from DUM-E’s claw. With a grin, Steve starts lightly rubbing the cloth across the bot’s frame.

“You’re worse than a cat, DUM-E, you know that, right? Or maybe a dog. I dunno, I’ve never had either of them before. Couldn’t. Too many allergies. And my asthma would have killed me if we could’ve afforded a pet. Which we couldn’t. Not enough money, not enough food.” Steve shrugs and buffs out a smudged fingerprint. “I like to think I didn’t miss out on much. I mean, there wasn’t much I could do anyway, even if we’d had a dog. Think Tony’d let me have a dog now? I’m healthy enough to take care of it, right?”

DUM-E makes a _brrrp_ing noise and nudges at Steve’s hand when it becomes clear that Steve is too far lost in thought. Steve huffs out a laugh and continues wiping the metal clean. With a sigh, Steve glances at the door, an odd sense of being watched washing over him before he shrugs it off as the presence of JARVIS’s cameras.

“Has… Has Tony said anything about me down here?” he asks, though he’s certainly not expecting a response from DUM-E ー or even JARVIS. “I just ー I wish he’d talk to me, you know? The only thing he’s ever said is that he knows we’re soulmates, but he hasn’t said anything else since then. And I thought we were becoming at least friends, so it, it kinda bothers me that he won’t talk to me about it.”

“Sorry to disappoint, Cap, but I actively avoid conversations that I know are going to be painful.”

Steve jerks backward and stares, blinking stupidly at DUM-E; he hadn’t known Tony had given the bot a speaking protocol. He turns rapidly when someone clears their throat from across the workshop. Tony stands there, looking like he’s fighting back laughter with his arms crossed over his chest. Steve can feel his cheeks burning hotly, and he studiously avoids Tony’s gaze, staring down at DUM-E’s support strut instead.

“Sorry, really. JARVIS warned me you were here, and I must admit, I’d gotten curious as to why you’d come down here when you knew I wasn’t home.”

Steve shrugs, hunches in on himself. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah,” says Tony after a lengthy pause during which he gazes at Steve without blinking. “Yeah, I can understand that. Probably wouldn’t have gotten much sleep tonight, either.”

“What keeps you awake?”

Tony hesitates but crosses the workshop to one of the computer bases. His fingers bring up multiple bright screens, and he moves them around a bit before he lets his hands fall to his sides. Neither man speaks for a long few minutes as Tony sits on one of the stools and drags a gauntlet and soldering iron closer to him. DUM-E, seemingly accepting the sad fact that he is no longer getting any attention from Steve, slowly wheels away with his claw hanging low to the ground.

“My mind doesn’t shut off,” Tony announces quietly, but he doesn’t look away from his task. Steve stays silent, not wanting to interrupt and potentially put an end to this conversation. “I’m always thinking, even when I’m sleeping, and I might as well put that thinking to good use, right? It’s basically my _thing_, y’know? Create, create, fuck up, create some more to make up for the fuck up, defend my creations against the board, and so on.”

“The board doesn’t like what you make?”

“It’s not weapons, so no, they don’t.”

“I… it must have been hard, suddenly stopping weapons production and going in different directions.”

“Easiest choice I’ve ever had to make. Sure, the process up to making the decision wasn’t so easy, but hey, whatever works.” Tony’s shoulder tightens, and a soft tapping noise fills the air. “Howard was pissed. When he saw my mark, I mean. I knew it had something to do with you ー I mean, how could I not, when I had a fucking shield on my wrist when everyone was aware of Captain America and his sacrifice ー but we knew you were dead, so it was just another way I’d somehow managed to fuck up without even trying. And lemme tell you, Howard made sure I was aware of how royally messed up I was. It was his favourite phrase: ‘You’re such a screw-up, fate let your soulmate die just so he’d never be stuck with you.’ Get in trouble at school or with the law, which was… far too often, I admit? I heard it. When he was drunk or in a foul mood because of some bullshit with the company or my existence? I heard it. And believe me, he was drunk a lot. It was the only way he could tolerate me, I guess. So yeah, I heard it a lot. And after a while, you start believing that shit. And…”

Tony shrugs jerkily, and Steve feels his heart fall even further. Howard had said _that_? He knew Howard could have been harsher than needed, but he would never have imagined Howard being so cruel to his own son. He swallows past the thick lump in his throat, rage and bile rising to the surface.

“If Howard was here, I’d knock his teeth down his throat.”

Tony doesn’t turn around immediately, but when he finally does, Steve is confused to see the mixture of emotions on the other man’s face. There’s a touch of pride, a bit of pleased and comforted, yet also distress. Steve can’t figure it out, can’t fathom why Tony would be so upset by the fact Steve would defend him in a heartbeat ー soulmates or not ー but he is pretty certain that asking would only cause Tony to shut down and hide behind the walls he builds so effortlessly. So he doesn’t mention it, doesn’t say anything else on the topic.

That conversation in the workshop seems to act as a catalyst: Tony allows Steve to come to the workshop whenever he wants, no matter if Tony is there or not. There’s even a portion of the workshop ー small and out of the way ー that Tony has set up for Steve to work on art if he wants. The time spent there is usually quiet, peaceful, and Steve appreciates being able to be there if Tony needs help with heavy lifting. There is even one holoscreen devoted specifically to tracking Bucky’s movements; Steve doesn’t try to go after him, as much as he wants to. He knows Bucky will just keep running and Steve will just keep falling behind. But to be able to see tiny white dots show up on the map of where he’s been is almost comforting. Steve finds himself getting distracted from what he’s doing whenever Tony is around, too intent on listening to the man ramble or too busy staring at the way his eyes light up when he’s excited, darken when he’s upset. Often, Steve has to force himself to ignore the urge, the desire, to cup Tony’s cheek in his hand and kiss him speechless. His nightmares have given way to dreams of what could be but never will.

Unfortunately, Steve gets the feeling that Tony is holding him at arm’s length. They don’t talk about being soulmates again, and Tony looks incredibly uncomfortable whenever _anyone_ brings up the topic but especially when it’s Steve saying the dreaded “s” word. He still cracks jokes about Natasha and Sam’s relationship that’s blossomed since the Triskelion’s fall and the road trip that followed, but he stays well away from mentioning the soulmarks that adorn their body. He doesn’t even bring up the fact that Thor doesn’t have a mark ー apparently, being Asgardian means that soulmates aren’t a thing.

It takes a month of feeling like he’s made progress only to be pushed away for Steve to finally reach his wit’s end. He paces his quarters for hours every day during the week that Tony is at some business conference; he practises what he’s going to say whenever he sees Tony again. His mind races the entire time, and the mark on his chest seems to throb with the knowledge of what he’s about to do. Steve had been okay with the connection not being complete ー not happy, but fine with it ー but now it’s too much. Being so close to his soulmate, being in love with his soulmate, and his soulmate rejecting it for so long… it’s taken a toll on Steve, and he can’t force himself onto Tony and still be able to live with himself.

Tony looks exhausted, his dress shirt half-unbuttoned and hanging open, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and Steve’s steps falter. He sways unsteadily in the doorway, shifts his weight between his feet, before he pushes forward. Tony doesn’t look up from the bar as he pours scotch into a glass. Steve wrinkles his nose at the sharp scent, but he can’t concentrate on that right now. He comes to a stop a few feet away, clasps his hands behind his back, and tries to assemble his thoughts.

“If you want me to leave, I will.” When Tony doesn’t respond beyond taking a large swallow of his drink, Steve tamps down on his frustration and continues, “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable in your own home, and obviously, you’re not exactly comfortable with the fact that your soulmate lives here, too. So say the word, and I’ll go so you can have your home back.”

Tony sighs tiredly, and the glass clinks on the bar as he sets it down. He still doesn’t turn to Steve. “I’m not going to kick you out. This is your home, too, Steve. Just… stay.”

Steve isn’t expecting this to be Tony’s answer, and he feels off-centre even as Tony brushes past him. The scotch, the colour of dark honey in the dim lighting, is left on the bar. Steve stares at the drink for a long moment, but nothing comes to mind to help him understand what just happened. With little else to do, he turns on his heel and heads to his quarters.

For the next two weeks, he avoids Tony. He doesn’t go down to the workshop any more, not even when Tony isn’t there; he doesn’t want to risk coming across the other man. And it seems Tony has the same plan. He no longer comes to team movie nights, and mealtimes are very obviously devoid of his presence. It’s… a lot harder than Steve would have expected. He had never realised just how often Tony and he crossed paths in the last few months. And he finds himself yearning to find Tony and stay by his side, but whether that’s the connection or his own feelings, he isn’t quite sure.

“Sorry for the intrusion, Captain, but Sir would like to see you in his quarters.”

Steve sighs heavily but doesn’t drag his attention away from the page he’s reading. “Why?”

“He has something he wishes to discuss with you.”

“I don’t wanna make him even more uncomfortable by being in his living space. Can’t he come here?”

“I’m very sorry, Captain, but that is not possible. You must go to him.”

Steve hesitates but eventually closes his book. He takes the time to place it back on the bookshelf, telling himself he definitely isn’t stalling. The walk to Tony’s door seems to stretch on for miles, and Steve’s heart pounds unsteadily in his chest. His skin feels clammy even to himself; a drop of sweat tickles his flesh as it slides down his spine. He comes to a stop outside the door and bites his lower lip.

“Sir says you may enter whenever you wish. The door is unlocked.”

Steve nods sharply, reaches for the doorknob then immediately jerks his hand back. This repeats a couple more times before he finally steels his nerves and twists the knob, pushes the door open. He steps inside and halts immediately.

Furniture lines the walls, leaving a large empty space in the middle of the room. A thick blanket covers the carpeting; a couple of throw pillows rest on the floor next to the blanket. Dozens of candles flicker merrily on holoscreens that float in the air, not nearly as brightly-lit as usual, and Steve stares at the sight in front of him. Tony taps his fingers against the arc reactor casing, shrugs with an embarrassed flush to his cheeks.

“I… I’m no good at stuff like this. Ask Rhodey. Ask Pepper. Ask anyone who knows me, and they’ll tell you. I’m better at the big shows. But ー and you’re very lucky here ー I asked Pep and Rhodey for advice, I even went to Natasha, and this is what they suggested. But anyway. As I said. I’m no good at the, the emotional stuff. I’ve never been. You telling me to tell you to leave… it surprised me. I mean, I know you’re respectful of spaces and whatever, but I never thought you’d ask me to tell you to actually _leave_ your home. And I realised… I realised I don’t want you to leave. I actually like having you around. You makeー you make my life easier and, well, better. Not because you help in the workshop, I mean, I like that you do, but that’s not why, and oh god, I’m fucking this up, aren’t I?”

Steve can’t fight the laugh that bubbles up. He lowers himself to sit on the blanket in front of Tony, still chuckling, and Tony’s affronted expression certainly doesn’t help. Steve gently pulls Tony’s hand away from the arc reactor, links their fingers together.

“Sorry, I promise I’m not laughin’ at you. You’re definitely not fucking this up. This… this is much more than I expected.”

“Figured if we were going to do anything about, well, us, it would be better to do it in the comfort of our own home and away from prying eyes.”

“And I appreciate that.”

“Carrot stick?”

“_What_?”

Tony tugs an honest-to-god wicker basket over to them, flipping the lid open, and Steve stares down at the mass of food inside ー fruit, carrots and celery sticks, miniature sandwiches… all foods to be eaten with fingers. He grabs a grape and starts to bring it up to his mouth but changes his mind halfway through the motion. Tony’s eyes widen slightly; his lips part, and he allows Steve to carefully push the grape into his mouth. They take turns after that, sometimes feeding themselves but mostly feeding each other. The awkwardness melts away, transforms into an easy comfortableness. Something inside of Steve loosens, falls into place, and he leans over to press a soft kiss onto Tony’s cheek. Tony stares at Steve from the corner of his eye before turning his head and capturing Steve’s lips with his own.

It isn’t much, but it’s enough for Steve. His mark pulsates with the desire he feels, the need for the connection and touch and Tony. Tony shifts, and Steve lets the other man push him until he’s lying flat on his back. Tony’s fingers are cool, feather-light, when he slips them under the hem of Steve’s shirt. Steve bites down on his tongue hard to prevent himself from laughing; Tony seems to understand why Steve is struggling to keep his amusement locked up, because he wiggles his fingers along Steve’s skin. Steve can’t fight it any more. He bursts into laughter and tries to squirm away from Tony’s tickling, but Tony doesn’t allow him to escape, rapidly moving so that he’s straddling Steve’s hips. Steve reaches up with one hand, tugging Tony down so Steve can brush their lips together. Tony exhales sharply, and Steve takes it as permission. He wraps his hand around the back of Tony’s neck, the other hand cupping his ass. Tony’s hips jerk forward as his mouth opens for Steve. _This is how it’s supposed to be_, Steve thinks as their tongues dance together, as Tony’s hand slides further along Steve’s chest, as their soulmarks meet for the first time.

Steve gasps into the kiss at the searing hot that skitters across his flesh, emanating from the centre of his chest, and his head falls back at the dizzying emotions he’s feeling ー not all his, no, but he can’t make heads nor tails of where _Tony_ ends and _Steve_ begins. A sharp pain blooms into existence where his jaw meets his throat, and he’s having trouble breathing with the arousal that spreads through him like a wildfire. He thinks he hears Tony whispering an _oh, fuck_, but he isn’t sure. All he knows is he finally feels complete; he leans up until he can kiss Tony again, hard and demanding and so full of want. Tony doesn’t deny him anything, just gives and takes and gives some more, as Steve slips a hand between them. Tony’s jeans are tight ー _too damn tight_, Steve growls ー and his hand burns with the need to touch Tony. He whimpers when the other man actually pulls away, but the sound cuts off with a strangled garble when Tony doesn’t waste time, just yanks off his T-shirt and then shoves his jeans to his ankles in one swift motion, leaving all of him on display. Steve takes in the sight before him hungrily, reaching for Tony when it becomes evident that looking isn’t going to be enough.

He manages to take off his shirt while still lying down, but he leaves unbuttoning his pants to Tony; Steve is too afraid his fingers won’t work properly. He’s just tossed his shirt to the side when he lets out a yelp, groaning low and long in his throat at the sudden wet warmth on his cock. He clenches his hands into fists at his side, but all he really wants is to bury his fingers in Tony’s hair, to hold on tight. Tony pulls back enough to tongue at the slit, and Steve’s hips twitch, jerk upwards. Tony chuckles, his breath hot and humid on the head of Steve’s dick, before he wraps his lips around the tip again, slowly lowering until his nose presses against Steve’s flesh. Steve forces himself to hold still so he doesn’t choke Tony, but that willpower is thrown out the window when Tony swallows around him. Tony moves with Steve, his head pulling back as Steve’s hips thrust up, and his fingers slip between Steve’s thighs. Steve lets his legs fall open, too enthralled by the sensations for his mind to work properly.

“Ton-Tony, please, wait,” Steve manages to pant out when the arousal in his gut reaches a peak, threatens to spill over. “Please ー”

Tony doesn’t stop, his mouth and hand working in tandem on Steve’s cock, a finger of the other hand pressing lightly at the skin behind Steve’s balls. Steve doesn’t try to hold back now, just fucks up into Tony’s mouth as he chases the orgasm that’s so close. He comes with a hoarse cry of Tony’s name, and Tony works him through it. Steve collapses onto the floor, breathing quickly and heavily, as he tries to regain composure. The blue-white circle on his chest thrums, vivid in the dim light of the holoscreen candles, and Steve presses a hand over it, his heart racing beneath his ribs. Tony crawls over Steve, leans down to kiss him ー just a soft, tender thing. His erection jabs into Steve’s belly, and Steve reaches down to wrap his hand around it. The angle is awkward, but since neither of them seems to want to separate, Steve doesn’t give a damn; he strokes Tony’s cock as fully as he’s able, spreading pre-cum along the tip with his thumb.

“I’ve… I’ve never,” Steve admits on a whisper when Tony pulls away, “not with a man, anyway.”

“Do you want to?”

“God, yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“I swear to God, Tony, if you don’t ー if you don’t get inside me, I will kick your ass.”

Tony laughs quietly. “Relax, Steve, I’ll take care of you.” He sobers up, pinning Steve with a serious look. “If you don’t like something, tell me. I don’t care what it is. I need you to be honest with me.”

Steve nods without hesitation, and Tony presses a kiss to his forehead before sitting back on his heels. The position affords Steve the opportunity to stare openly at the man, the sharp lines of his body smoothed out by muscle and some fat, the brilliance of the arc reactor illuminating the angles of his jaw. Steve can’t believe he’s this lucky; he stretches out an arm to drag a finger along the side of Tony’s thigh, the skin smooth and hair soft under his touch. Tony glances over at him, smiles, and resumes digging through the basket. He comes up with a bottle and a square packet. When he’s done, he turns to Steve and holds out a throw pillow.

“It’ll be easier on your stomach.”

Steve is reluctant to roll over, to not be able to see Tony, but he trusts his soulmate with everything in him, so he does and puts the pillow beneath his hips. The room is quiet, and Steve closes his eyes and inhales deeply, feeling on display A loud _click_ startles him; Tony’s hand on his lower back calms him. He settles back on the floor and focuses on relaxing his body. A cool, wet finger runs along his ass, catches slightly on the rim, and Steve jolts at the touch. He bites his lip as the digit presses inward, tries to slip past the muscle; Tony starts up a litany of _Relax, sweetheart, take a breath, that’s right, you’re doing so well_, and Steve flushes at the heat that zips through his veins at the praise.

Tony makes a noise in the back of his throat. “Damn, you blush so beautifully, I wanna see what else makes you turn so red.”

“Tony…”

“I know, I know.”

Steve isn’t sure when one finger becomes two, he’s so caught up on the buzz of heady want, but he can’t ignore the sting and stretch of three fingers opening him up. His breath catches, and Tony’s hand is soothing along the side of his ass. His hips grind down into the blanket, he’s searching for release and desperate for it, by the time Tony pulls his hand away. There’s the sound of the wrapper opening, and Steve reaches back blindly. The condom is slippery when Steve takes it in hand, and he’s grateful when Tony moves closer so Steve can roll the condom on. Tony’s moan sends Steve’s blood singing. He wonders what Tony tastes like, but he doesn’t get the chance to voice his desire before Tony is pushing his arm away with a gentle smile. Steve rests his weight on his forearms, stares at the floor, as Tony settles in behind him. The head of his cock pushes slowly into Steve, and Steve instinctively holds his breath and tenses until Tony reminds him to _breathe, baby, relax_. The slick drag of Tony against Steve’s insides has Steve panting for breath almost immediately. Tony moves slowly, pressing forward only once Steve has had a moment to get accustomed to the girth, and eventually, he stops with his hips against Steve’s ass.

“Holy shit, you feel amazing, oh my God, Steve.”

Steve nods fervently, unable to form words, and he shifts his weight. Their groans intermingle at the sensations, and Steve swears he sees stars. Tony pulls back then pushes in again; Steve whines and moves his hips to meet Tony’s thrusts. They fall into a rhythm, slowly finding synchronisation, and Steve has never felt so full, so wanted, so _whole_. His eyes burn with unshed tears as Tony fills him over and over and over again, and he can’t stop the noises that fall from his open mouth. Tony drapes over his back, one hand wrapping around Steve’s shoulder, the other coming to rest over Steve’s heart, and Steve cries out at the change of angle, at the way Tony’s cock slides across his prostate repeatedly, at the way their soulmarks seem to vibrate and sing with the contact. He brings a hand up to grab on tightly to Tony’s wrist, holds him close.

“Har-harder, please,” he begs, heat flaring in his cheeks at the pleading. “Please, Tony, _fuck_, more.”

Tony pulls back off of Steve, and his thrusts speed up, increasing in force, and it isn’t long before Steve’s breath is being fucked out of him. He can’t stop it, can’t keep the tear from sliding down his cheek as the air fills with the sound of skin slapping against skin, their cursing and moans and _please_s and _fuck, yes_s, and the smell of their sweat. Steve wraps a hand around his own cock, stroking in time to Tony’s movements, being pushed forward into his hand and pushing back onto Tony’s cock. Four, five more strokes, and Steve comes again, spilling over his hand and onto the blanket beneath him. His arms tremble from the release, and it takes all he has not to collapse right then and there, not while Tony is still moving inside of him. Tony’s thrusts become erratic, less rhythmic, and he leans forward, bites down on Steve’s shoulder, and muffles his shout into Steve’s skin; his hips push forward once, twice, and finally still as they’re pressed tightly against Steve’s ass.

“Fuck.”

“I, I think we did that, yes,” Steve replies a bit breathlessly, and Tony starts laughing immediately.

He’s still chuckling when he pulls out of Steve, removes the condom and tosses it into a small trash can nearby, and collapses on his back next to Steve. His eyes dance in the flicker from the candles; Steve shivers as Tony’s fingers trace random shapes onto his skin. Steve leans over, kissing Tony softly.

“This was really great, Tony. The surprise picnic, the ritual, the-the sex, everything.”

“But?”

Steve’s brows furrow. “But what?”

“I dunno, seems like everyone has a ‘but’ when they say something like that.”

“I don’t. I mean it. It was amazing.”

“Yeah, it was.” Tony pokes at Steve’s nose. “You, uh… you gonna stay the night?”

Steve stares at Tony, uncomprehending for a long moment, but then he understands; his heart breaks as he wonders how many people fucked Tony then left immediately after without regards to his feelings. He wraps a hand around Tony’s hip, drags him closer; Tony squeaks when Steve seals their mouths together in a kiss that he hopes will convey everything. Even if the kiss doesn’t, the soulmark might, now that they’ve completed the connection.

“I’m staying as long as you’ll have me, Tony,” Steve whispers against his lips. “You’re home. You’re my soulmate. You’re _everything_. Why would I go anywhere else?”

Tony rolls his eyes, but there’s a pleased smile playing on his lips. He shoves the basket away with one foot, curls closer into Steve, and drags the blanket over them as far as it will go. Steve rolls onto his side so he can hold Tony tightly to him. They share a few slow, lazy kisses, and Steve can feel arousal humming deep under his skin, but for now, this is enough, he doesn’t need more.

“I love you,” Steve whispers long after Tony has dropped off into sleep, securely wrapped in Steve’s arms. Steve dozes off, too, the mantra of _I love you I love you I love you_ repeating in his head.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Supposed to be (Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21135374) by [Neutralchaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neutralchaos/pseuds/Neutralchaos)


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